


afternoon delight

by heart_nouveau



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Hotel Sex, Margaery is married to Tommen, Mommy Issues, Older Woman/Younger Woman, ladies who lunch, messed up relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9093637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heart_nouveau/pseuds/heart_nouveau
Summary: Both of them knew that “lunch” was just a façade for the rest of what the afternoon held. Cersei had already booked their preferred suite at the adjacent hotel.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this before the end of Season 6 - when [spoiler] Cersei literally murdered Margaery! Yes, this ship is a hot mess, but just imagine if they'd turned that hateful energy into hot sex instead of... well, murder. Ah, I miss them.

 

As they approached the host stand of the fancy French restaurant, the hostess gave them a brilliant smile, her eyes skimming across the two of them with a professional glance. “Well hello, Margaery! And this must be your… sister?”

Margaery beamed. Cersei hated the grateful feeling of relief that coiled in her chest at these little junctures. Mother or sister, it was always a toss-up what people would say, and she always felt ridiculously relieved when it was the latter. She _was_ only 43.

“My girlfriend, actually,” the younger woman confided, mouth lifting into a little amused smirk, and whisked Cersei away by the arm before Cersei could furiously correct her.

They sat down at their table, a luxurious booth tucked away in the corner. “Let’s plan the baby shower,” Margaery dimpled, reaching to pull a leather-bound binder out of her pale pink Birkin bag.

Cersei flipped open the wine menu and lifted one finger to flag down the waiter. “Fascinating. I told you, you plan the thing, I foot the bill. I don’t give two shits about what color gardenias you want.”

It was true that she couldn’t care less about planning a party for Margaery and Tommen’s upcoming happy news; if they hadn’t been meeting about the baby shower, they would’ve found some other excuse. Both of them knew that “lunch” was just a façade for the rest of what the afternoon held. Cersei had already booked their preferred suite at the adjacent hotel.

“Gardenias are gauche, Cersei, how many times do I have to tell you that?” Margaery said sweetly. She reached across the table to touch Cersei’s hand, gold bangles chiming on her wrist as she did so. “We’ll be having miniature roses. Those _never_ go out of fashion.”

Cersei rolled her eyes.   
  


* * *

   
Sprawled across the queen-sized hotel bed, Margaery lifted her head from between Cersei’s legs, mouth shiny and wet. “Damn, Mother. Even your son didn’t come that quickly.” 

“Which one?” Cersei retorted. “Since you’ve fucked them both.”

Margaery only smiled wider.

“And don’t,” Cersei added, “call me that.” She clamped her legs around Margaery’s head and twisted. Margaery was flipped onto her side, spitting and swearing, legs dangling off the bed.

“Jesus Christ, Cersei, I’m pregnant.”

“You won’t break.”

Margaery looked irritated, but said nothing. Instead she got to her feet, lifting one hand to massage the side of her neck, and walked around the side of the bed where she flopped down bonelessly next to Cersei.

“Don’t you want to know how Tommen is?” Margaery said after a few moments, both of them staring up at nothing in particular. Twenty years ago, Cersei would be smoking a post-coital cigarette. But she’d quit that particular vice – smoking was aging and bad for the skin. Drinking was all she had left.

“If I want to know how my son is, I’ll call him.”

“Fine,” Margaery said silkily, and Cersei bit back a spasm of rage. ‘The baby bridegroom’ was what people had started calling her youngest son, who was only 18 years old when he’d married Margaery, six years his elder. _After_ his older brother had died in the middle of his wedding to Margaery. Cersei didn’t want to think about it.

“Want to go again?” Margaery said after a moment, and of course Cersei did. That was what she was here for.  
 

* * *

  
She did have to admit it was a little strange, watching a four-months-pregnant woman not caring about getting on her knees, or all fours, to have sex. 

Cersei personally disliked that fact that Margaery was pregnant, because it meant she had to be gentler on her. She didn’t try to, but Cersei remembered being pregnant – the tenderness of her scalp, the soreness of her gums, the way her body had ached in the most unexpected of places. She’d felt vulnerable in more ways than she’d ever had.

It was true that Margaery _looked_ breakable, all delicate limbs and long eyelashes, but that was a front. Inside that ballerina’s body lurked the coiled strength of a prizefighter. She’d proved it over and over again, in the blows she didn’t flinch from taking (or throwing), because in the beginning, Cersei hadn’t exactly been a willing conquest. That was before she realized where Margaery’s skills lied, and how useful Margaery’s mouth was for doing things other than throwing insults. There had been some hitting, some scratching. (Sometimes there was still scratching, but now it was the consensual kind.)

Margaery licked Cersei’s slit with the flat of her tongue, eyes pinned on Cersei’s. Cersei huffed a loud breath, unable to look away. She lifted a hand to brace herself against the headboard, and raked the fingers of the other through Margaery’s silky tangled hair. Her hips rose and fell, jerking, as Margaery teased her to a hot, volcanic climax and eased her back down.

“What is it with you wanting to fuck me, anyway?” Cersei asked, feeling a chill as post-sex sweat evaporated from her bare chest.

Margaery licked her chops, almost purring. “Because I want to know how you taste when you surrender to me in every way possible.”

Cersei stared at her, half-disgusted and half-awed. “And that gets you off?”

Margaery raised both eyebrows pertly. “I was raised by my grandmother without any strong parental bonds. I don’t have any guilt about subsequently being sexually drawn to mother figures. And father figures don’t matter because I’m predominantly attracted to women.” She smiled like this was something an expensive psychotherapist had told her several times.

“And that gets you off,” Cersei repeated.

“You say that like you’re surprised. Haven’t you looked in the mirror lately? You’re hot as hell, Mother.”

Margaery jumped as Cersei’s nails tightened on the flesh of her shoulder, a warning reprimand for using the name Cersei hated.

“Tell me more.”

Margaery yawned, inching backwards off the bed until she was standing up. She went to the closet and pulled the white hotel robe around her languidly, as if the sex had made her sleepy.

“You’re incredibly sexy.” Margaery shrugged, looking blasé. “Everything about you oozes sex. I love the way you smell, dress, wear those expensive Zanotti heels that look like you could kill someone with them. What else do you want to know?”

This was part of the unspoken deal. Margaery said these things, or some variation of them, every time they did this. Ever since that first furtive time a few days after Joffrey’s funeral. Everything had sort of gone to shit since then, and Cersei often felt like she was barely holding on. Sometimes it seemed like the only constant in her life was this little brat who stared at her with hungry eyes, like Cersei was a pricey dessert and Margaery wanted to skip dinner and get to the good stuff.

She hated feeling needy, but any middle-aged woman past her prime needed reassurance once in a while. Even Jaime hadn’t been much of a verbal lover or a sweet talker: he’d showed his appreciation without words. But he hadn’t admired Cersei’s body in years; she couldn’t even remember the last time he’d returned one of her calls.

So it had been a long time since anyone but Margaery, even if their bizarre little affair had started more as a grudge than anything else, both of them with something to prove. Both wanted to win. Cersei didn’t really understand what was in it for Margaery, who seemed to make it her personal mission that Cersei enjoy what they did as much as possible. Sure, she had mommy issues or whatever; plus she didn’t exactly get what she wanted in the marriage bed—with her tongue loosened after a session between Cersei’s legs, Margaery had told Cersei more than once that she thought men were good for marrying and nothing else.

That had made Cersei laugh. It was the half the truth. In personal experience, marrying a man had little to do with liking to fuck him. Until she remembered that the husbands Margaery was referring to were both of her sons. Then she stopped laughing.

Now the younger woman stretched out on the bed beside Cersei, as long and lean as a whippet. She rolled onto her back.

Feeling charitable now that she’d gotten her share of compliments, Cersei reached inside Margaery’s gown, cupping a small breast and running her smooth thumb over one warm nipple. Margaery gave a little shudder and Cersei glanced up at her. “Sensitive,” she noted.

“Pregnant,” Margaery replied. She gave a little chuckle.

Cersei’s hand worked farther down, opening the robe to the waist. Only the sash of the robe fell across Margaery’s pale stomach, now distended slightly with child. She ran her fingers over the skin and then lifted them, using the tips of her sharp nails. Margaery shivered.

“You’re only showing a little,” Cersei commented. “I was the same way.”

“Yeah, you’re going to be a grandma soon,” Margaery breathed, and then glanced up at Cersei. “No more ‘Mother.’ It’s going to be ‘Granny for you.”

 _Oh?_ All hints of affection gone, Cersei could feel the blood pounding in her brain. She sat up, zeroing in for the glass of wine on the side table. “All right, that’s enough.”

Margaery laughed. “Christ, I’m just teasing. But it’s true.” She added, “No need to go straight for the merlot.”

Cersei ignored her. She hadn’t come here to be lectured. “Well, what do you call your grandmother?” she said after a few minutes, her back still stiff with rage. _That ancient, scheming bitch._

“‘Grandmother,’” Margaery said sweetly. “She wouldn’t answer to anything else.”

“Fine. If it’s good enough for Olenna Tyrell, it’s good enough for me.”

“All right, _Grandmother_.”

Something vicious sparked in Cersei’s veins. She sat down with abrupt speed, pressing a finger to the younger woman’s lips. “But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll call me by my name. What’s my name, Margaery?”

Margaery’s pink lips parted soundlessly. She let out a little pant of breath that might have been nervousness or surprise. Then she said obediently, her eyes dancing in a way that hinted of but did not betray insubordination, “Cersei.”

“That’s right, little girl.” Cersei finished half her glass in one gulp, set it aside, and then crooked her finger. “Now come here.”  
  


* * *

  
For all Margaery’s talk about tasting Cersei, Cersei had never returned the favor. She only ever fucked Margaery one way, sometimes with silicone assistance. But today it would be the old-fashioned way: with her fingers. 

With her back propped against the headboard with several pillows (Cersei would usually make Margaery do all the work and balance, but again—pregnant), Margaery straddled Cersei, her robe open in front and falling back behind her shoulders. She gazed down at Cersei’s fingers disappearing inside her. Cersei slowly, almost lovingly fucked Margaery with two fingers, thumb circling Margaery’s clit. Margaery panted, and when she looked down and caught Cersei’s eye, she smiled in a way that was breathtakingly tender, and all the more startling for its context. Even though what they had together was rough, and rushed, and nasty, Margaery sometimes made Cersei feel like this might be the deepest emotional attachment Margaery had in her life. Which was majorly fucked up.

The younger woman panted and sighed, and Cersei thought bitterly how beautiful she was. Margaery wore her youth and beauty so cavalierly, just like that robe falling off her body. Cersei couldn’t ever remember a time she’d been so confident in herself. Even at Margaery’s age— _and I was much prettier, of course_ —she’d been edgy and jealous, constantly on the alert for girls paying Jaime too much attention, and always seeking the most attention from the handsomest boys herself. Even if it didn’t mean anything, she always wanted the best, and she had never been satisfied. Her beauty was a trophy to display. It was a tool, not a gift.

But Margaery clearly felt different. She luxuriated in her body. She was generous. She was unashamed. “My shrink says I have trouble drawing the line between sex and emotion,” she said once, when Cersei called her on it with a mixture of scorn and something more like jealousy.

Margaery made little mewling noises. And she didn’t call Cersei “Mother.” She called Cersei by her name, and also “baby.” Cersei hated to admit it, but the sound of Margaery’s breathy voice—“Yes, baby, like that, _oh_ you feel so _good_ , Cersei oh—” always got her wet. And not just a little bit. Very wet.

Resting her forehead against Cersei’s, Margaery panted out her orgasm as it hit her in waves, causing her body to rock and jerk like a marionette. Feeling kind, Cersei gave her about ten seconds before pushing her roughly off her lap.

Margaery said nothing. Licking her lips, she gingerly rose and sat at the edge of the bed as Cersei crossed to pour herself another glass of wine.

 _I can’t wait until you’re just like me, you little bitch_. And at the same time, the thought made Cersei sad. Maybe she didn’t hope Margaery ended up the same way. Maybe she hoped Margaery might end up with something better.

Cersei drained her glass, threw back her head, and laughed. Now she really knew she was drinking too much.

She was starting to get really fucking sentimental.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Edited and rewritten December 2016.


End file.
